


Baked

by robotboy



Series: Butterscotch [5]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: (but otherwise fluff), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Disabled Character, Christmas, Deaf Character, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jewish John Silver, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-19 22:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17010756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: Snow, presents, confessions, pie, and stars.





	1. Queens

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [ellel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellel) for beta-ing this!
> 
> [Mood board!](http://r0b0tb0y.tumblr.com/post/181156847367/baked-the-christmas-instalment-of-butterscotch)

Silver loves working at Queens. He loves the busy sprawl of tables and the regulars that claim them. He loves Madi’s acerbic wit keeping him on his toes for eight hours of the day. He loves Kofi’s hash browns. He loves the way Queen, the eponymous owner, treats everyone like family.

What he currently loves most is that they never play Christmas music.

He’d persuaded Queen to add a number of seasonal syrups to the coffee menu, so his mornings are filled with gingerbread latte-making. He’d proven his worth to Queen by luring a solid number of Eleanor’s regulars. He doesn’t feel too guilty: House of Sticks has remained closed in the weeks since Thanksgiving. He’s learned through mutual friends and social media that she’s taking the time to spend with Woodes while he recovers. The damage to his face was superficial, so Silver allows himself to sleep at night. The continuing absence of assault charges helps too.

A couple leaves the café, thanking Silver and Madi on their way out. When the door opens, a rush of chill sweeps inside.

‘Looks like snow,’ Madi notes.

Everyone says it at this time of year, but Silver finds he believes Madi can accurately predict the weather. There’s only been intermittent drizzling, the kind of rain that floats in the air like a mockery of snow.

‘You want snow?’ Silver offers. He whips up a cappuccino, and dusts powdered sugar on top instead of chocolate. ‘There you are.’

She smiles at the joke, holding the cup to her face for a moment to feel its warmth before she sips. ‘Very funny.’

‘Better than the real thing,’ Silver says.

‘You don’t like snow?’ she asks. ‘Too cold?’

‘Too slippery,’ he confesses.

Madi nods, drinking her coffee. She knows about his leg: he had to bring it up on the first day, to explain why he couldn’t wait tables as well as making coffee. They’d hired him anyway, but it’s more than that. Sure, he spent every day next to Eleanor in his old job, but he’s worked beside Madi for four weeks and she knows his life story. She’s so easy to talk to, and she’s candid in return. At first he thought it was easy to tell her secrets because she didn’t know any of his friends, but now she _is_ his friend. And since he started bringing Flint in—Flint, who moved his work shifts around to fit a daily stop at Queens—they’ve become friends independently of Silver. They text constantly, and sometimes when she’s grinning at her phone Silver recognises it as a reaction to Flint’s sense of humour. Madi’s picked up some ASL from Silver showing her, and the rest of the staff have adopted some basics to communicate across the noisy café.

The problem with Madi getting to know him so well is she knows all his flaws, too. ‘Have you talked to him about what really happened?’

He stares at the ceiling for a bit while he cleans the steamer. She just waits for an answer.

‘More or less?’

‘I know how difficult it must be,’ she tells him. ‘And the longer you're with him, the harder it gets, right?’

‘It should be the opposite of that,’ he frowns.

‘But it isn’t,’ she says, because she’s too fucking wise.

‘He never pushes me about it,’ Silver knows he’s bargaining. ‘I’ve told him _some_ parts.’

‘More than you tell anyone? More than you’ve told me?’

‘You both know… different things?’ Silver attempts to bargain.

‘Don’t make me keep secrets from him,’ Madi warns. ‘Especially if I don’t know what parts are secrets.’

Silver gives her a pained look. She never lets him off with stuff like this, and as much he hates it, he loves her for it.

‘If you really don’t want to,’ she shrugs playfully. ‘I can text him.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Silver says, and he’s almost certain he’s right. Almost.

She smiles coyly. ‘Do you want to take the risk?’

‘That’s it, you’re going to bluff me into it?’ he folds his arms.

She holds her chin high. ‘Don’t talk to your boyfriend as much as you talk to your work friend. See if I care. But don’t put me in the middle when he’s my friend too.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Silver promises. And he realises that as much as he wants to tell Flint for his own sake, he also doesn’t want Madi to be disappointed in him.

Silver chews on his lip. Then Eme arrives with an order for the table of eight, giving him one more opportunity to put it off.


	2. Cards

The snow doesn’t come that day. Silver makes it home dry, checking the mailbox on his way in. He shuffles through bills—they’re a lot less unwelcome when they have Flint and Silver’s names next to each other—and finds an unusual envelope at the back. It’s almost square, like a card, but thicker. It’s addressed to James Flint in a slanting handwritten script. The corner is covered in stamps with pound denominations, and Silver turns it over to confirm it’s from England.

Flint is in the kitchen, and he kisses Silver hello. Silver passes him the envelope and Flint’s eyes widen—in surprise, then delight. He slides his thumb over the seal and pulls out a bulging Christmas card. It’s glittery, with a picture of a puppy surrounded by seasonal foliage. Inside the card is a tightly-folded letter in the same script as the envelope, many pages long by Silver’s guess.

Flint reads the message in the card and smiles, a hint of red on his cheekbones.

_It’s from my mother,_ he tells Silver.

Silver raises his eyebrows. _That’s good. I..._ he thinks of how to phrase it kindly. _I didn’t know she kept in touch._

_Only once a year,_ Flint picks up the letter to demonstrate. _The rest of them don’t know._

Silver thinks his heart breaks a little at the thought of that; at the way Flint carefully unfolds the pages and is so clearly torn between Silver’s attention and his desire to read the letter. Silver gestures in encouragement, busying himself by going through the bills one by one so Flint has a chance to read. Flint moves quickly through it—part of Flint’s job description is reading illegible handwriting—and folds it back up when he’s done.

_Anything interesting?_

_She got a new dog,_ Flint turns the card upright. _Looks just like this, she says. Brother’s deployed again. She hasn’t talked my father into retirement._

Silver notes the order of significance there.

_And she hopes you’re good for me,_ Flint adds, his blush deepening.

_You told her about me?_ Silver is baffled. _When?_

_I send her a letter too,_ Flint confesses. _At the start of the month. I wasn’t sure she got it until now._

_You mentioned me?_

_Don’t let it go to your head,_ Flint chuckles. _But you’ve been a big part of my year._

Silver tries to meet Flint’s eyes, but ends up with his face hidden in his hands. Flint wraps his arms around him, rocking him playfully and nuzzling his hair.

_Really?_ Flint asks, releasing him. _It’s that I told my mum about you?_

_I don’t know,_ Silver says. _Maybe it just went to my head. What did you say?  
I was seeing someone, _Flint recounts. _A one-legged milk frother from Australia._

_I’m not…_ ** _not_** _that,_ Silver shrugs. Flint shakes his head, laughing.

_I said I met you at a café._ _I said you’d moved in recently. I said you were special to me._

Now it’s Silver who’s blushing outrageously. Flint gives him another kiss on the head, pouring himself a glass of wine and offering one to Silver. In the lounge, Flint tucks the letter in one drawer and removes a roll of twine from another. He strings it between two hooks on the wall, then takes the Christmas card and hangs it on the string.

_You can hang yours there_ , Flint says. _If you’re expecting any...?_

_You’re fishing,_ Silver accuses him.

_Are you biting_? Flint raises an eyebrow.

Silver sighs. His instinct is to digress, but this is exactly what Madi was getting at.

_I’m not_ , he says, and Flint’s expression shutters. _I mean, I’m not expecting any._

_This is your home too,_ Flint says. _If there’s anything special you’d like to do for Christmas, we can._

_Not really,_ Silver says honestly. _I think the only tradition I’m interested in is getting Chinese food._

Flint looks bemused, then he clicks. _Oh! Really?_

So, they’re having this conversation now. If Flint’s willing to fish, Silver loves him enough to bite. _Yes, really._

_Is that… actually a thing?_ Flint asks. It looks like one of a million questions he has.

Silver shrugs. _It’s an American-Jewish thing. But I like noodles, so I can make it a thing._

Flint frowns. _Did we just miss Hanukkah?_

He looks genuinely concerned. Silver says: _Yeah, but it was never really a big deal. In Australia they both fall at the start of summer, so it’s not really the same. My mum was Jewish and she never did much for it, and I’m just… Jewi-s-h._

He spells the ‘ish’ out slowly. Flint looks thoughtful.

_I distinctly remember you glassing a man for a lobster last month,_ Flint reminds him.

Silver bursts out laughing. _I’m not keeping-kosher Jewish, but I didn’t default to a celebrating-Christmas Christian either._

_Is it alright that I got you a present?_ Flint asks.

_I’m always happy to get presents,_ Silver assures him. _I’m not going to shut myself in the bedroom or anything—Miranda’s coming, right?_

_I hope so,_ Flint nods. _I was going to cook a lunch, put up a tree. Not much more to it than that._

_I like lunch, I like presents,_ Silver says. _I didn’t exactly make plans. You’d be amazed how many culturally irrelevant holidays I can spend getting high and playing Nintendo._

Flint laughs, pulling him into a hug.

_We went out on the Fourth of July, didn’t we?_ Flint recalls. _Was that one relevant?_

_Yeah, because I like fireworks,_ Silver nods solemnly. _And I know how the Declaration of Independence gives you a boner._

Flint shoves him. Then he launches into his interpretation of the admirable ideology behind the Revolution, and the difficulty of putting those ideas into words and those words into practice, which becomes a list of Thomas Jefferson’s personal failings, which becomes a tirade on the transatlantic slave trade, and finally a segue into the prose trends of the late 1700s and how they implicitly shaped the core principles of nationhood, all of which are somehow genuinely fascinating when Flint describes them.

The glittery dog on the card catches Silver’s eye in the evening light. Silver thinks of the letter, and hopes he’s good for Flint.


	3. Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the heavy chapter: take care.

When the snow comes, it starts like a fairytale, dancing in the air and landing feather-light as Silver leaves Queens for the day. In the twenty minutes on the bus to the university, it’s coming down properly, and Silver swears to himself in ASL. His boots have a decent grip, but if it gets any thicker it’s going to be a challenge. He thinks of his traction cleats, stowed in a cupboard in the townhouse up two flights of stairs that will give him hell tonight. He really should have texted Flint and gone straight home, but the sky hadn’t been threatening a whiteout when he’d left Queens, either.

By the time he reaches the history department, small drifts of snow are beginning to settle on the campus and the ground is treacherously wet. It feels like it takes Silver twice as long to reach the building, and while he doesn’t slip, he’s tense all over from concentrating on keeping himself stable.

Indoors is slightly over-heated, but Flint had texted to say he’d be out any minute so Silver doesn’t his jacket off. He tools around on his phone—he’s not optimistic about this being the first ever academic meeting to finish on time—and soon enough Flint appears in the hallway. He smiles when he sees Silver, and introduces the two colleagues trailing in his wake; Joshua and Joji. Both seem surprised that Silver is Hearing, but Silver’s equally surprised by the reminder that Flint’s oral at work. Silver asks politely about their projects, and they explain the letters Flint’s brought over from the archives. When they’re off on their way, Flint kisses Silver’s forehead.

‘Thank you for meeting me. DeGroot would’ve had my head if they’d taken the letters over in the snow.’

‘It’s fine,’ Silver says. ‘But it’s getting heavier.’

Flint pulls his coat on. ‘My bag is back at the library,’ he pulls an apologetic face. ‘I can fetch it while you wait here?’

‘The library’s closer to the bus,’ Silver signs as he speaks. ‘Better to get going sooner.’

Flint nods, tilting his head to switch his hearing aids off. He exhales heavily as he does, a trick he’s told Silver about. Flint can hear his own breath cut short if they’ve turned off, but he won’t know otherwise if they’re still on, chirping in their box, unless Silver tells him.

_Are they not snow-proof?_ Silver signs.

_I’ve never wanted to find out,_ Flint shrugs.

The library is, in Silver’s opinion, an impractical distance from the history department. He normally likes the campus, but now he’s measuring it in the number of steps, the steepness of hills, and the stability of surfaces.

_How’s Madi?_ Flint asks.

_She’s well,_ Silver says. _She’s started reading—_

His left leg skids on ice and goes from under him. Flint catches him quickly, and the jolt of it pulls almost as much as falling would. Silver straightens himself, leaning on Flint’s arm until he’s steady. The adrenaline from nearly falling makes him queasy, and he lets Flint take his weight for a moment longer.

‘Don’t talk for now,’ Flint says aloud, his hands busy keeping Silver stable. ‘Just walk.’

Silver keeps a grip on Flint as they make their way to the library. Flint is a column of warmth, patient with Silver’s slow and unsteady pace, taking Silver’s weight easily. There’s a flurry of snow around them now, whirling in the air. Silver keeps focused on the path in front of them, until they’re suddenly in the library’s foyer and he can let go.

_Do you want to stay until the worst of it passes?_ Flint asks. Silver agrees, and both of them take their coats off.

_We could wait in my office,_ Flint offers. _But the reading room’s more comfortable. Just let me get my bag._

Silver waits, wiping the melting snowflakes from his face. Flint is back in a moment, summoning the elevator for the top level of the library. The reading room is hidden innocuously at the back of some stacks, behind a door Flint swipes his staff card to unlock. It has overstuffed armchairs, tall windows, and a blessed lack of students. Flint drags two chairs over to the glass, giving them a view of the college green as it fills with snow. Flakes are drifting into the corners of the windowpanes, as pretty as a picture.

_I’m getting concerned this is turning into a blizzard,_ he confesses to Flint.

_There’s worse places to be stuck,_ Flint reasons. _Not much food, though._

_We’d be forced to eat Billy._

_He’s big,_ Flint nods. _He’ll last us until the new year._

Silver’s knee twinges, and he props it up on a low table. It’s probably against the rules, but Flint doesn’t mention it.

_How’s it feeling?_ he asks.

_It’s been better,_ Silver confesses. He presses the pin and unlocks the prosthesis, wincing as he eases the socket off. He’s got an extra sock stuffed in his jacket pocket, and he quickly rolls it over the liner. It’s warm, and it’s probably going to get itchy if they stay inside, but it pads the socket better as he clicks the pin back in place.

_Does it hurt more in the winter?_ Flint asks.

_Not that much,_ Silver says. _No toes to get cold._

Flint chuckles.

_It feels… weird, when a storm’s coming._ _Not like pain, exactly. I can’t explain it very well…_ he attempts to convey it in gestures. _Like a twanging feeling? As if the bone is a wooden ruler on the edge of a table._

_Did you feel it today?_

_I wish I had,_ Silver thinks back. _I don’t usually notice it while I’m working_.

_Useful skill, though,_ Flint comments.

_Only half as reliable as a weather app,_ Silver pulls a face. 

_Could you always do it?_

_Not when I had two legs,_ Silver snorts.

Flint rolls his eyes. Silver answers more seriously: _A year or two after I lost it, maybe._

It would be so easy to stop there. To change the subject, or not say anything at all. Because Flint won’t ask: he’s not pushing, he’s not fishing. Silver thinks it might be easier if he did. Madi asks—maybe that’s all it takes.

_No,_ Silver corrects himself, because if Flint won’t push him he’ll push himself. _I don’t actually like saying I lost it. Like I left it at the bus stop. Like it was an accident._

_It wasn’t an accident,_ Flint repeats. It’s not a question, exactly—perhaps Flint knows him too well and has guessed, or Madi followed through on her threat to text him (she wouldn’t), or the implication is clear enough in Silver’s face.

_Maybe it was,_ Silver says. _The court decided it was._

Flint’s eyebrows crinkle together in concern.

_It makes for a shit story,_ Silver says. _That’s half of why I don’t talk about it._

_You don’t have to,_ Flint assures him. Silver shakes his head: he doesn’t need an out. He needs to do this.

_I told you I grew up in a small town,_ Silver says, and Flint nods. _The year after school, there wasn’t much to do. Working shit jobs, drinking, messing around. You’d spend every weekend getting drunk with your mates and going for a walk, or going for a drive, depending on how fucking stupid you were. I was going for a walk, two guys from the football team were going for a drive._

_Football?_ Flint asks, with gentle levity.

_Shut up, it’s called football,_ Silver dismisses him. _Don’t mock my culture. They were driving a…_

Silver pauses, his hands going slack. Flint looks worried, then curious.

_I don’t know the word,_ Silver explains.

_Can you spell it out?_ Flint asks.

_It’s an Australian word,_ Silver says. _You won’t know it._

_Try me._

He spells it. Flint doesn’t know it. Then he pulls out his phone and searches for images in the browser.

_Pickup truck!_ he exclaims, showing Flint. Understanding dawns on Flint’s face, then horror. He's figured out where the story is going.

_They were joking,_ Silver says. _Chasing me with the truck for a laugh. The driver was drunk, and he revved instead of braking, and…_

Silver holds his hands out at the result.

_I’m sorry,_ Flint says. He follows it with: _Fuck._

_I don’t know why they did it,_ Silver says. _Maybe I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there’s things I think—I never stop thinking—could have made them want to do it._ ** _Mean_** _to do it. But I’ve never been sure. There’s parts I don’t remember properly and I…_

Flint reaches out and squeezes his fingers briefly.

_I hate that most of all,_ Silver tells him. Maybe it’s easier, signing it, because he doesn’t have to talk through the rock-hard lump in his throat. But his hands are shaking, and it must be obvious.

_Why do you_ ** _think_** _they did it?_ Flint asks, his eyes like steel.

_There was a rumour,_ Silver shakes his head. _That I’d sucked a guy’s dick, one of the guys from the team. A town like that, when that gets around?_

_I know,_ Flint reminds him. _I understand what you mean._

_Nobody could have known about it,_ Silver continues. _Except the guy I blew. And he was in the passenger seat._

Flint lets out a sharp breath. _Did you tell anyone?_

_Who was there to tell?_ Silver chews on his lip. _What did it matter, his mate goes to jail for five years, ten, fourteen? It doesn’t bring my fucking leg back._

**_Fuck,_** Flint repeats. The anger looks better on him. Fresher.

_The truth is, I don’t know why it happened. Maybe there isn’t a_ **_why._ ** _I don’t know, and I never will, so it’s just a sad story or a bad one. It might as well have been an accident, so that’s what I say. Car accident._

Flint covers his mouth with his hand, pressing tightly, scowling.

_I just wanted to get out,_ Silver says. _That’s all I could do. I got moved to a city hospital while I was still too opiated to really know was going on. They didn’t have amputee rehab facilities anywhere near where we lived. My mum moved to the city to help me, and we stayed there. I never went back. Some of her relatives visited, like I was in a fucking zoo. They’d never given a shit about either of us—I’d always been an unwelcome surprise in the family._

Flint nods. He knows some of the basics already: Silver’s non-existent father, a disapproving extended family, a mother who died five years ago.

_So I wasn’t exactly coming home for Passover_ , Silver explains. _And once I could walk again, I moved across Australia. Bigger city, better coffee. Further away. I’d work casual jobs in hospitality and save up. Travel to Europe, Southeast Asia with friends. Then I filled my savings account and quit work. Started in California and backpacked my way across the states. I found myself here, and I liked it._

_I’m glad you did,_ Flint smiles _. At least selfishly._

_I went back, when my first visa ran out, and again when my mum got sick. She used to smoke, so..._

Flint nods, understanding.

_After rehab with my leg, and her dying, I_ _never wanted to see the inside of a hospital ever again. That’s why I came to America: no healthcare._

Flint laughs drily. _Why did you really come here?_

Silver takes a heavy breath, staring at the wonderland out the window. _To get away. I couldn’t_ ** _run_** _, so I guess I ran metaphorically. Across Australia, across the Pacific, across America, ending up here. About as far away as I could get on the planet._

_The antipodean point?_ Flint asks, spelling out the term.

_The what?_

_The furthest place on earth,_ Flint explains, holding his hands in a sphere _. If you drew a line through the planet’s core, it’s as far away as you can possibly be._

_It must be close here,_ Silver thinks about it.

_You ran a long way,_ Flint remarks.

Silver shifts in his chair. _I’ve always… been able to leave. And now, it’s not that I_ ** _want_** _to run—and I don’t feel trapped, because I know I_ ** _could_** _—but I_ ** _can’t_** _. Not when I think of us._

_I won’t make you run,_ Flint promises.

Silver looks outside. The snowstorm is easing, but not enough to go out.

_There you go, history buff,_ he smiles at Flint. _That’s some history for you._

_Thank you,_ Flint says sincerely, even though Silver knows he hates the moniker.

_Tell me why you like it?_ Silver prompts.

_What, being with you?_ Flint raises his eyebrows, smiling.

_No, history,_ Silver grins. _I already know why I’m amazing._

_Why I like studying history?_ Flint whistles through his teeth as Silver nods. _I like... understanding how the past shapes the future. Finding the things we thought were inevitable, that so easily couldn’t have happened. That moment, before the present tense becomes the past, and the possible becomes impossible...I can’t imagine a future without being able to grasp that._

They’ve talked about the little stuff before, how Flint chose majors and ended up specialising in the eighteenth century. But Flint has never really described the heart of it. Maybe it’s a favour to Silver, a truth for a truth.

_Do you know what I find myself look for, archiving?_ he asks Silver.

_What?_

_Us. Not you and me..._ he smiles to himself. _Maybe, you and me. But, the people who don’t fit. The broken, the lost. The loved. The ones who aren’t written about in histories._

He shakes his head, as if he doesn’t believe it himself. _And I find them._

_It’s how power holds itself in the place, writing us out of the narrative,_ he continues. _If we’re not in the past, we can’t imagine ourselves a future._

Silver considers it. _Doesn’t that mean we depend on the past? What if there isn’t one?_

_There is,_ Flint insists. _And when there isn’t... you find it in what’s missing. Every space between every line ever written, every corner uncharted. Those are_ ** _ours_** _._

_That’s what we get? Nothing?_ Silver asks.

_I told you there’s more than that,_ Flint reminds him. His eyes are alight from the challenge. _But when there isn’t, we make something from nothing. We know how to survive from nothing—we learn to thrive in nothing._

_Alright,_ Silver agrees. _I like that._

_Well, I’m glad you approve of my career choice,_ Flint laughs. _Because I’m too old to re-train again._

_You know what I mean,_ Silver waves him off.

_It’s clearing up,_ Flint nods outside. _Want to brave it?_

_Might as well,_ Silver stands, stretching.

The storm has finally ceased, leaving a picture-perfect blanket of snow on the grounds.

_You’ll get a white Christmas if this keeps up,_ Silver comments.

Flint ducks his head and smiles. Silver laughs in surprise.

_Are you hoping for one?_

Flint shrugs, but Silver can tell. _It would be special._

_You really care about Christmas, don’t you?_ Silver grins.

_Not spiritually,_ Flint insists. _Not in a way where it’s a problem that you don’t._

_It’s ok, I know that,_ Silver assures him. _It’s that you hate so much organised... everything. I want to know why this one thing makes you so happy._

Flint thinks it through as they head for the exit. _I think it’s because it’s the darkest time of the year. When everything is cold, and dying. But you find something good in that place. You make a home for yourself, with a family of your choosing, happiness when the world is determined to take that from you._

Silver grins. _You like Christmas because it’s spiteful. Of course you do._

Flint bursts out laughing at that interpretation. _Maybe I do._

He offers Silver his arm, and they venture out into the snow.


	4. Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a short delay on this one while I was away from a device that could handle italics. But I promise the final chapter will be a treat for (AEST) Christmas morning!

‘These,’ Idelle hands Silver a box. ‘Are for you and your boyfriend. Happy Christmas.’

Silver peeks inside at the mince pies.

‘I think there’s a mistake. You’ve only given me twelve…?’ he gives her an impish smile.

Idelle flicks him with a tea towel. ‘Don’t you dare eat them all on your own! And save some for tomorrow!’

Silver cuddles the box protectively. ‘I’ll leave one for Flint. I promise.’

‘Do you really call your boyfriend by his last name?’ Featherstone asks, sticking his head out from the fridge.

‘Flint? Yeah,’ Silver rests the box on the counter, adjusting his weight on the crutch. ‘Idelle calls you Featherstone.’

‘I call him that because that’s how you know him,’ Idelle says. ‘To his face, he’s _muffin.’_

Featherstone hides in the fridge again.

‘But you call Flint _Flint?’_ she asks.

’It was his coffee name when I met him,’ Silver says. ‘And it’s his name sign, too.’

‘His what?’ Featherstone reappears.

‘It’s like a nickname in sign language,’ Silver explains. ‘A word you use instead of spelling out your name. His surname’s Flint, and he’s got the fiery hair to match the personality, so he uses _flint.’_

Silver mimes striking two stones together to make a flame.

‘That’s beautiful,’ Idelle comments. ‘I’ve always wanted to learn sign language.’

Silver has learned, since dating a Deaf guy, that people feel the need to tell him this _all the time._ ‘There’s ASL classes,’ he offers, because one day someone will actually take him up on it. ‘I’m signed up for the fourth module in February, but the first three will be running at the same time.’

‘What does ASL stand for?’ Featherstone asks, while he folds together a flat-packed pie box.

‘American Sign Language,’ Silver recites. ‘Completely different from British Sign Language, and the Australian dialect. I learned that the hard way.’

‘Isn’t Flint British?’ Idelle frowns.

‘He is,’ Silver replies. ‘He learned ASL when he emigrated, same as you’d learn French if you moved to France.’

‘But…’ Featherstone gives up on a complicated tab on the box. ‘How’d he learn it? If he couldn’t hear the lessons?’

‘Oh!’ Silver shakes his head. ‘No, it’s not any problem. The classes are taught by Deaf people. Nobody speaks out loud during a lesson. Mrs Hudson, the teacher, used written English when we needed it.’

Idelle takes the box off Featherstone and finishes assembling it. ‘February?’ she confirms. ‘We’ll check the books.’

Silver nods. ‘Speaking of the books: are you looking for new clients?’

‘Always,’ she says, and with a slight tone of accusation: ‘Especially since Eleanor’s not reopening House of Sticks until next year.’

Silver holds his hands up innocently, his crutch hanging from the cuff. ’She said she needed some time off. But if you get a chance to run some samples over before the new year, I can hook you up with Queen. The cakes she’s been getting aren’t a patch on yours.’

‘Ooh, you know how to charm a girl,’ Idelle winks. ‘For that, you can have the gingerbread crust.’

Silver groans with delight while Featherstone puts it in the box. ’Are you and Flint going to get through these?’ he asks.

‘We’ve got help,’ Silver assures him. ‘But I’m hurt that you think I’d need it.’

Help has already arrived when Silver gets to the townhouse. Miranda meets him at the door and takes the boxes upstairs while Silver gets his boots off.

Silver joins them in the kitchen, where Miranda is tucking into a mince pie with her tea. Flint is at the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, apron tied around his waist. His hands are covered in flour as he signs hello to Silver.

 _Two boxes of pie?_ he raises his eyebrows.

 _Christmas surprise,_ Silver steals a kiss. _The mince pies are a gift._

Flint smiles, shaking his head. _You know what lunch tomorrow is going to be?_

Silver peeks into the mixing bowl. His eyes widen, and he probably looks a little crazy. _Are you making us a pie?_

 _Steak and kidney,_ Flint says. _Or, that was my brilliant plan._

 _It’s alright!_ Silver insists. _Puff pastry and shortcrust are different food groups._

Miranda laughs. Flint raises an eyebrow at him.

 _The big food groups,_ Silver nods solemnly. _At the bottom of the pyramid._

 _If you’re sure…_ Flint looks skeptical, returning to crumbing the pastry.

 _It’s too late, they’ve closed for the holiday now,_ Silver signs cheerfully. _We’ll just have to eat it all._

 _You know, I think we’re going to manage,_ Miranda agrees, helping herself to a second mince pie.


	5. Stars

Fortunately, one of Flint’s ways of observing Christmas involves sleeping instead of a morning run. It then involves tumbling around in the sheets with Silver, which feels like a fantastic idea until Silver’s knees remind him he’s been walking around in snow for a week and has to get downstairs before he can have breakfast. But there’s no rush, and Flint makes breakfast as well as coffee while Silver checks him out. Miranda comes shuffling down in fluffy slippers just as Flint serves up an omelette.

Then Silver is put in an armchair in the lounge, and Flint gets the log fire roaring. He and Miranda distribute presents from under the tree. Predictably, a lot of books are involved. Miranda gets an early edition of Mary Shelley from Flint; Silver gets a novel Miranda tells him he’ll love after she saw his battered Discworlds on the shelf. Flint has ridiculously specific taste in reading material, and with Miranda’s help, Silver had tracked down a coffee-table book of Renaissance maps with monster illustrations. Flint is so fascinated by it he spends minutes leafing through the pages without noticing Silver slipped something else in the parcel. Miranda eventually has to prod him.

 _Look under,_ Silver says. Flint lifts the book and finds the t-shirt folded underneath. Silver had had the idea a while back, and got Charlotte to screen print it for him. Flint holds the t-shirt up and almost drops it when he reads the slogan, snorting. He turns it around to show Miranda: DEAF BEFORE DECAF.

Miranda gets a box of artisanal teas from Silver. She has foregone the trouble of picking Flint a book herself, and instead gives him a toque that’s so ugly Silver begs him to wear it every day until June.

From Flint, Silver gets a dozen single socks, each with a different design.

 _Socks for Christmas,_ Silver laughs. _You really are a traditionalist._

 _There’s something else for you,_ Flint hands him a smaller parcel.

It’s a game for the Switch. _I didn’t forget_ ** _your_** _tradition,_ Flint smirks.

 _Very funny,_ Silver tells him, but he sets up Mario Party and shows them both how to use the joy-cons. Miranda’s competitive streak is a little bit terrifying, especially when Flint leaves them in a death match to get the pie baking.

Silver hasn’t had a savoury pie in years. He devours his slice, which makes Flint smile, and then happily follows with the gingerbread-crust pie from the bakery. Miranda makes one of her new teas, and tells Silver she loves it. They retire back to the lounge and Silver turns the Switch on again. Miranda snuggles under a blanket with her book, while Flint banks the fire and lays next to Silver, playing on his phone. Within an hour, Flint is asleep and Silver can feel a pie coma threatening his consciousness. He gets up and stretches, then remembers his other Christmas present. It’s downstairs in the pocket of his jacket, so he makes his slow way down to fetch it. Miranda watches him curiously as he returns with the jacket on, so he shows her the blunt, generously rolled by Muldoon in the festive spirit.

 _Want some?_ he signs.

She nods amiably, pulling the blanket into a shawl around her shoulders. Silver finds a thicker blanket and drapes it over Flint’s shoulders, and he shuffles with Miranda out onto the little balcony.

Silver brushes the snow from the railing. The air is crisp enough to sting his ears, but it’s sunny for the late afternoon. It’s quiet all down the street, the snowfall still pristine on every surface.

He lights the blunt and takes a deep drag, passing it to Miranda. She takes it with a practiced ease, and they gaze out at the still world while they pass it between them.

 _Do I have a name?_ Silver asks her.

Miranda tilts her head, her eyes crinkling curiously.

 _A name sign,_ Silver clarifies. _Or do you just use ‘Silver?’_

 _It_ ** _is_** _convenient when your name is a noun,_ Miranda smiles. _Yes, I call you ‘Silver.’ Do Hearing people call you ‘John?’_

 _Not really,_ he tells her. _There’s too many Johns; it’s better to go by Silver._

 _Sensible,_ Miranda nods. She looks at him with that oddly perceptive gleam in her eyes. _You hoped he’d given you a pet name._

 _Not really,_ Silver insists. _It’s just something someone said yesterday. It had me thinking about it._

 _He calls you Silver, it’s true,_ she pauses to take a drag, then passes back to Silver. _But you know we use a different variation. It’s a little more obscure than the kind for jewellery._

She flicks her middle finger against the thumb. It’s the sign for ‘silver’ Flint had originally given him, though Mrs Hudson had taught him a different word.

 _Is there any significance to it?_ Silver asks.

 _The common ‘silver,’_ Miranda taps her earlobe and makes an ‘S.’ _Looks like ‘Hearing’ in BSL,_ she taps her ear again, then her mouth. _You understand why he may not be partial to it._

The day is starting to fade, the drifts of snow glittering in the evening sun.

 _The name he gave you for ‘silver,’_ Miranda continues. _There’s a certain way he says it. Like an accent._

 _There is?_ Silver has no idea.

 _It looks like a word in BSL,_ Miranda explains. _You might say it rhymes. When he says your name, it looks a little bit like ‘stars.’_

 _Stars,_ Silver repeats, and Miranda shows him the flicking motion again. A wind picks up, and Silver pinches out the joint and puts it away.

Inside, Miranda settles on the armchair and promptly falls asleep, so Silver boots up the Switch and plays Hollow Knight.

He gets in a solid two hours, during which he unlocks his prosthetic leg to curl up on the couch in just the liner. His game progress slows considerably as the high sets in—he’s lost all tolerance since moving out—but he’s happy to fumble through sidequests while Flint drifts in and out of consciousness beside him.

Then the doorbell flashes and Silver frowns in confusion. He has no idea who’d be calling at Flint’s on Christmas night, and if he’d known he’d have left his leg on. He pulls himself to the edge of the couch, muttering about this stupid holiday, when Flint pats his side.

 _I’ve got it,_ he tells Silver, and vanishes downstairs.

The smell of fried food precedes Flint’s reappearance. He brings two bags into the lounge, and starts piling square boxes and chopsticks on the coffee table.

 _You didn’t,_ Silver gapes, slightly too baked to process what’s happening.

 _I did,_ Flint grins.

_When did you...?_

_It’s remarkable what you can do with phones these days,_ Flint wiggles the screen at Silver. The receipt from their local Chinese restaurant is displayed there.

 _I didn’t actually think we were going to…_ Silver stares at the boxes in wonder.

 _If you’re too full, I’m sure Miranda will finish your share,_ Flint winks.

 _Noooo, bring it here_ Silver signs hurriedly, leaning over to snatch up a box of noodles. Flint laughs, snapping some chopsticks apart for him.

Flint rouses Miranda and sets her up with fried rice and dumplings, then settles himself beside Silver with a second box of noodles. None of them can finish, so eventually Flint takes the leftovers to the fridge and they drift up to bed. The bedroom is chilly, so Silver steals one bedsock from Flint’s collection while Flint spreads a heavy blanket over the covers.

Silver settles on his back, and Flint tucks himself under Silver’s arm, laying his head on Silver’s chest. He kisses Silver’s collarbone and rests his hand on Silver’s heart. Silver tilts his head back, his chin on Flint’s crown, and skates his thumb over Flint’s shoulder.

The night is dark in the high window, but full of stars. Silver traces the lines between them in the freckles on Flint’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on variations of ASL: I'm not an ASL speaker so I'm not sure why different versions of 'silver' are used or in what context. I'd love for someone to enlighten me!
> 
> Thanks folks! One week until New Year!


End file.
